


Clementine

by hellcsweetie



Category: Suits (US TV)
Genre: Character Study, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:07:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26352397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellcsweetie/pseuds/hellcsweetie
Summary: Harvey has a thing for Donna’s hair.
Relationships: Donna Paulsen/Harvey Specter
Comments: 4
Kudos: 39





	Clementine

One of the few things Harvey never bothered hiding during the years they weren’t together is his appreciation for Donna’s hair. 

It was the first thing he saw when he looked at her in that bar, the side-swept bangs that made her look girlish and young. And then, on her first day on his desk, he discovered that the hair he had thought was auburn in the low light of the bar was actually a deep, burnt orange tone that shone against the gray of her sweater. Turned out her hair matched her personality - bright, polished, unique.

He’d met a lot of redheads before, and has met some more since, but none with hair quite like hers. While some had the red tinge of artificial dye and others had orange hair so light it was really strawberry blonde, Donna’s hair is a mix of apricots and cuban cigars and cinnamon and maple syrup.

He thinks it’s half magic, the way it sits in place all day - he’s relieved to find out, once they start getting ready in the morning together, that she does use hairspray and that her hair is actually not that low maintenance, what with the blowdrying and styling. But it’s worth it, because it looks like rich silk every day, inviting to the touch and sliding between his fingers.

He’s tugged on it during late nights at the office, after discarding shoes and ties and their usual work hours inhibitions; he’s messed it up affectionately to annoy her, earning him the worst glare he’s ever gotten.

He tucked it behind her ear once, on a night when he was walking her home after one of their anniversary dinners. The wind was blowing it into her eyes and he barely thought twice before doing it, the move feeling completely natural until her eyes widened for a millisecond and he remembered that that wasn’t natural at all. She looked down, possibly to hide a blush, and murmured a thanks, and he kicked himself internally and vowed never to do that again.

Now he doesn’t need to hold himself back; he actually sometimes finds himself touching her hair for no reason other than because he can.

He likes her hair up, in a messy knot on top of her head when she needs to get it out of her face quickly, or in that blob-like bun she makes in the morning by tying it in a ponytail and only pulling it halfway through the band.

And then there’s ponytails. She usually wears them when her hair isn’t super clean, or when she’s going for a laid-back look. He loves her profile in them, how full her tresses look, how it compliments her nose and her elegant neck. He likes to twirl the tail around his index when they’re sitting on the couch or standing in line for something, and he loves it when she indulges him and ties it up before they have sex, making it easier for him to pull it and drive them both to the brink of sanity.

He might never forget that time she walked up to him on a random Tuesday night, kneeled between his legs, tied her hair in a ponytail and proceeded to make him forget all about the baseball game he was watching.

But he loves her hair down, too. He loves being able to examine the exact color of the strands, how some are darker and some are almost blonde, how her hair glimmers in the light or sunshine, how it catches fire during sunsets at the beach. 

He loves it cascading down her back, wavy and full or sleek and straight. He likes it when she parts it to the side and it frames her face beautifully, or when she tucks the front strands tightly behind her ears and lets the rest fall over it, usually to highlight those swanky earrings she’s taken to wearing lately.

He loves it curly from the sea breeze, and tangled on his pillow, and around his fingers, and tucked into a Yankees cap. He loves it stuck to her lip because of her lip gloss and he loves how dark it gets when it’s wet.

He loves that it matches her freckles and her eyes and every outfit she’s ever worn. He thinks it matches his own hair, in a way. 

He hopes that, if they ever have kids, their hair will match hers too.


End file.
